


i'll never stop wanting to

by WickedSong



Series: into the air [2]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Happy Birthday Rach!, I hope this fic is Huntingbird af for you!, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-04 05:59:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2954798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WickedSong/pseuds/WickedSong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lance Hunter, Bobbi Morse and one - <i>not that he would ever admit it</i> - worried phone call.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'll never stop wanting to

**Author's Note:**

  * For [leofjtz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leofjtz/gifts).



> So yeah, originally this was going to just delve into the ot6 (minus Coulson), and was probably only going to span three parts, but I did kinda talk about this idea on twitter when I had the actual idea so yeah it happened.
> 
> Dedicated to Rach, who is amazingly funny (and talented), and a real treasure! Also an actual Scottish elf. Plus, she's Huntingbird trash af and it's her birthday today and so that's half the reason I decided to write this. I hope you enjoy and HAPPY BIRTHDAY!

Lance stares at the burner phone he holds in his hands and, under his breath recites the number he now reluctantly knows off by heart. The one Bobbi gave him the last time they saw each other -  _'just in case'._

He wonders what counts as 'just in case'. In case he ever needed back-up in whatever job he was doing? In case something was to happen to one of their friends?

He doubts that idle chit-chat about their feelings, or that stupid, drunk voicemail he once left her counts.

What about an alien invasion, that he's 99.9% the organisation she works for, was involved in? Was that a good enough reason to call his ex-wife?

He's scanned the news articles and can spot the tell-tale signs of SHIELD. Bobbi was a good spy; he knew one of their best, but even she – or even Izzy, after a particularly ridiculous mission – couldn't resist spilling some of the things SHIELD had been behind.

Crumbs of information, sure – like he said, his ex-wife was one of the best and secrets were the number one driving force behind the end of their marriage – but enough that he can tell that New York was one such event.

But on this scale it's left him distracted.

It's captured the imagination of the world too. Traces of it are everywhere you go – even the most remote places he's found himself on various jobs since it happened. People – ordinary people on the street, people who don't have super spy ex-wives, know that the world isn't the same – that the world can't ever be the same again.

At first he'd tried to let it go. He'd tell himself constantly that Bobbi was fine because when wasn't she? Izzy or Mack would have let him know if anything had happened to her in the chaos anyway, but still-

Looking back at the phone he lets his fingers trace over the numbers. It would be so easy. And hearing her voice would get rid of the knot that was tying itself over and over again in the pit of his stomach.

It would be beneficial, he tells himself, trying to be as detached from the idea as he possibly can. He can't go into his line of work – where distractions could be the thin line between jail or freedom – or even life or death – without knowing.

If he tells himself that, that it's more for him than knowing about Bobbi's well-being (a  _lie_ ), then it's easier to dial the number. He doesn't hang up this time either.

"Hello."

How long has it been since they last saw one another? Since he last heard her voice?

Two years? Three? (Not that he cares, not that he keeps count).

Is it just the time apart - now that it's so much more apparent - that threatens to knock him to his back.

"Hello?" she repeats.

He realises he should really say something  _now_.

"Bob, it's-it's-"

"Hunter," she finishes. She sounds fairly casual; not as pissed as he expected and not as happy as he secretly hoped she might be.

That was a stupid hope anyway.

"Y-Yeah," he confirms, and cringes at the nervousness in his voice. What was he? A twelve year old with his first crush?

He can imagine she's rolling her eyes over the line.

"What do you want?" she asks. And again, she sounds so calm.

What  _does_  he want? He could hang up now; he's heard her voice, he has the confirmation she's alive and that was all he wanted ( _needed_ ) to know.

He hates awkward small talk. She does too.

Her breathing is steady over the phone and briefly he wonders why  _she_  doesn't hang up.

"I heard about New York and I just thought," he fidgets, his hand scratching the back of his neck, trying to find the words, "I would see how you were."

She's silent for a while. Such a long time, in fact, that he wonders if she  _has_  decided to hang up on him after all.

"Bob," he says quietly, to see if she's still there.

A small intake of a breath is the reply. "Yeah, Hunter, I'm fine."

He doesn't note how her breath kind of hitches, or how she stuttered a little over her words. He's almost sure he was imagining it anyway because Bobbi would never let him hear that, would she?

For such a small moment, he reflects that this is the most peaceful conversation he's had in months. His heart aches with the simplicity of it all and the memories of the life they had together.

The most indistinct of times; when she'd trudge home after an assignment he could tell was particularly grueling but was  _classified_. In those times he hadn't cared – secrets had just been secrets and they were nothing to be upset about, because he could tell she was tired and she was injured, but she was alive and he had spent too many nights wondering if the phone would ring with terrible news.

In the end the fact that she was alive was all that  _really_  mattered.

"I have to go."

He's brought back by her voice, back to the present and where they are now as opposed to where they had been two years and nine months ago (he  _does_  know, he  _does_  care to keep count).

"Yeah," is all he can really say in reply, because, truthfully, he's still more than a little floored by how it's all come back.

"Thanks for calling, Hunter," she says, softly. "Remember, don't-"

"Die out there," he finishes.

"Something like that."

She sounds amused, or at least he thinks she does.

He lets her hang up first, and once he hears the beep, he stands from the couch. It takes a moment before he realises he's smiling. It's small and so he tries to tell himself it's nothing, as thoughts take him back to their ritual.

' _Don't die out there_ ' was as casual between a mercenary and a super spy as ' _I love you_ ' was between other couples.

A (foolish, so, so stupid) part of him hopes she's smiling on her end too.

_(She is)._


End file.
